


The Earth Compels

by echowell



Category: X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Cherik - Freeform, Drabbles, Erik has Issues, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mostly Canon Compliant, Poetic nonsense, but not entirely, gayyy, mostly sfw
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-05
Updated: 2017-03-12
Packaged: 2018-09-28 13:46:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 2,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10107350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/echowell/pseuds/echowell
Summary: It still wounds him, like a blow to the stomach, that this is all Erik has. This little collection of happinesses, against an onslaught of starved, frozen bodies and barbed wire and long knives and shattered glass. Charles thinks of a coin at the bottom of the sea. Brightness rusting to nothing.-A collection of Charles/Erik drabbles.





	1. The Brandy Glass

**Author's Note:**

> This is a collection of Charles/Erik drabbles. The titles are taken from Louis MacNeice poems, partly because I thought one of the chapters matched a specific poem and couldn't get the link out of my head, partly it's easier to write to a theme, and possibly partly because I am a pretentious wanker. 
> 
> All of the drabbles are standalone stories and there's no specific plot, but they all fall more or less within the same universe. 
> 
> Also, to people who were reading my other fic, I am so sorry for abandoning it for so long. I honestly keep meaning to go back to it, but when you lose the thread of something it's really hard to pick it back up :/ Hopefully one day. In the meantime, I'm honestly sorry.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Only let it form within his hands once more –_
> 
> _The moment, cradled like a brandy glass_

 

Erik pauses, his back against the door, and looks at the room.

It’s…normal. Well, as normal as the Xavier mansion gets, which is presumably normal by the standards of the seventeenth-century nobility, but still. It’s a normal room. A neatly-made bed by the window; a set of drawers; a rug on the floor. He reaches out, and can feel the hinges of the doors, the nails and brackets of the shelves snagging faintly at the corners of his mind. No bars on the window. No steel girders in the walls.

With a sigh, Erik goes to the chair by the desk. Sits.

It feels alien to him.

The past few weeks have been a blur of sleeping in trucks, in abandoned warehouses, in military bases – always, always with metal buzzing around him, metal girders, reinforced doors, guns, razor wire, sheet steel, iron. Powerful. Crushing.

Before that, too. Erik idly twirls a coin between his fingers, remembering sleeping next to or across from Charles in a stream of shitty motels. The frankly bizarre aesthetics of some of Shaw’s facilities. The blank, freezing wooden barracks of-

He bites down on that memory before it sucks him in.

Of course, he can remember warmth and softness too. Low-light in a small, white-washed room, casting shadows on ceiling beams. An old-fashioned feather quilt that reminded him of his mother despite himself, awareness of his daughter sleeping safely down the hall, the slow warmth of a body at his side.

The coin clatters to the desk, hard enough to leave a slight dent in the wood.

And now _here_. A warm room, low light, soft blankets – as if the room itself is speaking to him in Charles’ bloody voice. _This is a safe place, Erik. You are always welcome here._

Suddenly, the helmet feels so very heavy. Erik glances at himself in the mirror above the desk and almost chuckles. It looks incongruous here, against the bookshelves, the faint flowers on the wallpaper, the soft pillows on the bed – far more than it does against the bare concrete and iron of a military base.

Erik sighs. He puts his hands to the helmet, his fingers just touching the edges, and pointedly neither holds nor avoids his reflection’s gaze.

In one smooth movement, he takes the helmet off and puts it on the desk.

For a moment, nothing. Then the brush of someone else’s thoughts against his own.

Erik startles, tenses, but the contact is gone as soon as it came – like someone’s hand brushing against his own in a crowded train carriage. He feels a faint, very gentle echo, something almost like a promise. _I’m here, but I’m not looking, not listening. Not a threat._

He stays tense a moment more, muscles rigid, gritting his teeth, hoping that Charles can sense his hostility. His _anger_. That he’ll keep his fucking distance.

For fuck’s sake.

He knows Charles will keep his fucking distance.

Erik slumps down in the chair, and shuts his eyes.

Of course he knows.

-

It’s only after a few minutes of sitting there in the quiet that he realises what a difference it makes. Charles’ mind is a slight vibration at the edge of his own, rather like hearing him puttering about in another room. It’s faint, unobtrusive, but there.

It’s…relaxing. Like coming home to a house that isn’t empty.

 _Home_. Erik gives the mirror a particularly hostile glare. Gets to his feet. Goes to take a shower.

-

The gentle knock at his door comes just as he’s beginning to get antsy, and Erik feels a deep flicker of anger at that, as if Charles has sensed it, has been reading him without his permission, even though he knows that’s not the case – but he swallows it down. Opens the door with a flick of one hand.

“Ah, I see you’ve made yourself at home,” Charles’ voice says. Erik concentrates on the wood of the desk under his fingers. Feels Charles wheel himself closer. When he looks round, the other man is watching him steadily, an actual old-fashioned china teacup balanced delicately on the saucer in his hand. Jesus Christ.

“I made you some tea,” he says.

A pause. Then – “I’m not staying.”

Charles’ expression remains carefully neutral. “I know,” he says softly. “I wish you would.”

“I’m not.” The words sound harsh, ugly, and Erik regrets them despite their truth.

There’s a long silence. Eventually, Erik huffs a sigh and takes the teacup, nodding his thanks.

“Erik.”

For a moment Erik thinks that Charles is about to make a heartfelt plea, another appeal to his better nature, and he straightens up, anger – _anger, always anger_ – flaring, but then there’s a hand on his arm. Charles’ expression, when he looks, is open. Soft.

“If you’re not staying, my friend, surely you can’t object to a game of chess?”

His hand is warm on Erik’s arm. This close up, his mind is bright, as much a source of heat and light as any fire.

“Of course,” Erik says. “Of course.”


	2. Mayfly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _‘When we are grown up we are sure to alter,_
> 
> _Much for the better, to adopt solider creeds;_
> 
> _The kingcup will stop proffering his cup_
> 
> _And the foam will have blown from the beer and the heat no longer dance_
> 
> _And the lift lose fascination and the May_
> 
> _Change her tune to June – but the trouble with us mayflies_
> 
> _Is that we never have the chance to be grown up.’_

 

It’s one of Erik’s brightest memories.

It was a shock when Charles found it filed away there, woven in amongst faint flickers of his mother candlelit by the menorah, snatches of Hebrew song, sunlight, helpless laughter, the little constellations of kindness and happiness that still linger at Erik’s core despite all his attempts to blot them out.

It still wounds him, like a blow to the stomach, that this is all Erik has. This little collection of happinesses, against an onslaught of starved, frozen bodies and barbed wire and long knives and shattered glass. Charles thinks of a coin at the bottom of the sea. Brightness rusting to nothing.

And then, to find his own face there, there amongst those faint streaks of gold that say _warmth_ and _kindness_ and _home_.

He can remember the day, too. It was long ago, back before finding Shaw, before the beach, when they were still trailing their way across the country picking up strays. A summer evening. New England, if he remembers correctly.

They’d stopped to rest on a grassy bank, beneath the trees. There’s a chessboard between them, mid-game. Two half-drunk bottles of beer at their elbows.

With the clarity of a photograph he sees his own face, eyes alive with laughter, hears himself saying _I hope you know this is a fluke, my friend, can’t have you getting an inflated sense of your own abilities_ \- and there’s happiness, a deep contentment edged with want, a yearning so strong that still, after all these years, he wonders how he didn’t _sense_ it.

He wonders if Erik still has that memory. A point of brightness down in the deep black depths of the sea.


	3. Snow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _World is crazier and more of it than we think,_
> 
> _Incorrigibly plural. I peel and portion_
> 
>   _A tangerine and spit the pips and feel_
> 
>   _The drunkenness of things being various._

 

The weather is edging over into winter. Charles keeps the study warm because – despite the sharp, snarled order to _stay out of my head, Charles_ – he can feel the shiver of discomfort the cold elicits from Erik, some deep and yawning horror, some childhood monster.

He thinks of frost on barbed wire, shivering, emaciated bodies, Polish winter. Tries not to think any further.

So that’s why they’re in the study with the fire banked high, the heavy curtains drawn against the outside world. He’s sprawled messily on the carpet, legs half-tucked under him; Erik, of course, looks as neat and composed as he always does, leaning back against the couch, scotch glass dangling from his fingertips.

“…people think of it as high-brow, Erik, but it _wasn’t_ , it was the very opposite.” Charles leans in closer, trying not to spill his drink as he gestures. “It was practically the lowest common denominator, entertainment for the masses, for _everyone_ , like – like…”

“’Spot the Tune’?” Erik’s voice is low, amused.

“Yes! Exactly! Shakespeare is _exactly_ like ‘Spot the Tune’!”

He’s drunk. He knows he is, just a little, but the school – and it is a school now, not an empty old mansion, a _school_ – is full of bright young minds, and he can _feel_ it. They’re a bright plurality, a cobweb of lights, every single one of them tentative and young and full of hope – some of them for the first time – _hope_.

 _That’s_ what he’s drunk on. Also, rather a lot of scotch. But hope!

“Or perhaps something else, something…plotty. But you know, no newspapers, low literacy, _no_ way of knowing what’s going on in the world,” – when he gestures this time, some of the whiskey slops over the edge of the glass. Charles takes a gulp to rectify the situation. “For most people, Henry IV or Henry V was the only way to get a view of current affairs that was halfway accurate.”

“Halfway accurate.”

“Well, yes. Sort of.” Charles realises he’s lolled so far back he’s practically leaning against Erik’s chest. For a moment he wonders if the other man minds – _touchy feely_ isn’t necessarily the first word that comes to mind – but Erik’s just watching him with that faint smile he’s wearing more and more these days. It’s thin and barely-there, but it _suits_ him. Looks good on him.

Peace, gratification, happiness, surprise. Charles thinks lots of things look good on Erik. He wants to say so, express it somehow, but for some reason the words blur before he can put them together properly, find a way to say it that won’t bring back that cold, closed expression-

“Charles,” Erik says.

Charles realises he’s been staring. “Yes.”

“I think you’re a little tipsy, my friend.”

Charles takes that as an excuse to sink into Erik’s side with a shamefaced laugh. “A little. But the company’s good.”

Some part of him wants to continue his monologue – he has the vague impression that he was saying something very interesting, he usually is – but the feel of Erik next to him stills him. The fabric of his shirt is soft, the skin beneath it warm. He smells of the open air, perhaps cedar or sandalwood, leather, and beneath that, just warm skin. Just him.

Above him, Erik has gone very still, his mind carefully blank. His breathing is forcedly slow, even, but his lips are slightly parted, his heart beating hard against his ribs.

Charles lets his eyes flicker shut and sinks against him. He hears a sigh, and then a soft clink as Erik sets down his glass, and cautiously brings one arm up, wraps it around Charles’ back.

There’s a slow moment where Charles can hear and feel the fire, Erik’s hand on his upper arm, the line of warmth where their bodies press together.

He tilts his head back to look up at Erik. His expression is – oh, so many things, all wrapped up together, and beautiful, so beautiful-

 _Fuck it_ , Charles thinks. He straightens up a little, and presses their lips together.

A moment of stunned stillness. And then – and then feeling blooms in Erik, a ripple of pleasure/want/need so strong that Charles can’t _not_ feel it, spreading through the both of them like ink through water.

He lets his hands go to Erik’s face, brushing along the lines of his jaw, shifting so he’s half in the other man’s lap, and Erik’s fingers are carding through his hair, one hand slipping under the hem of his shirt, and the contact sends heat shivering up his spine-

When Charles pulls back, they’re gasping for breath. He lets his forehead rest against Erik’s, taking in the taste of him, the heat.

“ _God,_ ” Erik whispers, eyes still closed.

“No, just me,” Charles says.

Erik breaks away to give possibly the most dramatic eye-roll Charles has ever seen.

“Trust you to ruin a moment,” he says – but he doesn’t take his hands from Charles’ waist, and there’s a smile lingering at the corners of his mouth.


	4. The Sunlight on the Garden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The sunlight on the garden_   
>  _Hardens and grows cold,_   
>  _We cannot cage the minute_   
>  _Within its net of gold,_   
>  _When all is told_   
>  _We cannot beg for pardon._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Sorry for the massively long endnote, this is one of my favourite poems)

 

 The sunlight on the beach is hard. It glances off the white sand, cruelly bright, and the body in his arms is shaking. His own voice cracks on the words. _We want the same things._

 _Oh my friend, we do not_.

For a moment, Erik remembers Charles’ body beneath his, his fingers trailing down the dip of his spine, eliciting shivers, faint gasps. Moaning into the crook of his neck – _“_ Erik – fuck, _Erik”_ \- as he shakes apart. Lounging in the grass together as Charles rambles on about something or another, gesturing wildly, and him lying there in the soft light, grinning like a fool. Lips against his temple as he turns to leave the library, and he can’t remember the last time someone touched him like that, with such casual affection.

Sitting in the stale air of some rental car and struggling to keep his eyes on the road. Cold showers. Scotch. Tea. Rumpled brown hair. Giving up the cold showers as a lost cause and getting himself off hard and fast and shamefaced, tiles cold against his forehead.

Leaning back against the headboard gasping for breath. Slim fingers. Sunlight. Soft moans.

_There’s more to you than you know._

It all falls on him at once, a cascade of fragments, and it’s sharp and suffocating and more than he can possibly bear. He wonders if this is what it’s like for Charles – so much life, coming at him from every direction, all at once.

The sunlight is bright against Charles’ face. He’s panting helplessly, trying to clench his teeth against the pain even as he grits out those words – _oh my friend_ – kind to the last.

Slowly, Erik lowers him down onto the hot, cruel sand, trying to hide the way his hands shake.

He rises to leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Our freedom as free lances_  
>  Advances towards its end;  
> The earth compels, upon it  
> Sonnets and birds descend;  
> And soon, my friend  
> We shall have no time for dances.
> 
> The sky was good for flying,  
> Defying the church bells  
> And every evil iron  
> Siren and what it tells:  
> The earth compels,  
> We are dying, Egypt, dying
> 
> And not expecting pardon,  
> Hardened in heart anew,  
> But glad to have sat under  
> Thunder and rain with you,  
> And grateful too  
> For sunlight on the garden.


	5. Trilogy for X

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _O my love, if only I were able  
>  To protract this hour of quiet after passion,  
> Not ration happiness, but keep this door for ever  
> Closed on the world, its own world closed within it._
> 
>  

Charles is lying across his chest. He’s a warm weight, his breathing soft, his hair rumpled. Erik cards his hand through it, gentle enough for the movement not to wake him.

He’s beautiful like this. Oh, he knows Charles would find it ridiculous – _really, Erik, I’m a scatterbrained academic, not a renaissance painting_ – but God, it’s true. He looks down at the man’s sleeping face, and thinks of how he looks-

Mostly Charles takes his pleasure with his face pressed into the hollow of Erik’s throat as if he’s shy, gasping incoherent half-phrases into the skin where shoulder meets neck. He shakes through it, clutching at his back – _oh god, Erik, please – fuck – please –_

Erik clears his throat quietly, shifts against the mattress. Charles doesn’t stir.

Mostly, Charles stretches out beneath him, trembles as long fingers ghost across his shoulders, his back. Mostly, Charles rolls his hips, slow and sure, smirking as Erik gasps for breath under his hands. Mostly, Charles kisses him softly, hungrily, and looks at him after with that quiet, considering look on his face, the look that says _oh my friend, there is more to you than you know_.

He’s becoming used to it, he knows. The warmth of Charles’ body alongside his, the other man’s hand on the small of his back, the nape of his neck, little brushes of affection that leave his skin tingling. Even the glow of his mind. It’s an echo, a faint vibration, like the iron he sometimes thinks he can sense in people’s blood – but it’s there.

It’s a comfort.

Erik thinks back to that first snarled command – _stay out of my head_ – and toys with it. With the harshness of it.

The idea of letting someone into his head is so dangerous that he will not let it reach the surface. But still he knows that some deep, dark part of him considers – wants –

But then there’s Shaw, of course, and all the others, all the men following orders, and. And.

Erik swallows in the dark, feeling the movement of his throat, his pulse, his breath, the drowsy weight of Charles on his chest. And then further – the old nails holding the bed together, the brackets of the shelves, the wiring in the walls. Further. Further.

That terrifying mix of fear and hope is not the only thing that lurks there, deep down in the blackness and the far distant past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is legit a MacNeice poem called 'Trilogy for X', how could I not


	6. Charon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _If you want to die you will have to pay for it_

The bar vibrates around him. Thumping music, glaring lights, deep shadows – a picture with the contrast dialled up. A glass of scotch in his hand. When he gulps it down it barely burns.

For a moment, Erik remembers a different bar in a different place. Milder. Quieter. _Blut und Ehre_. A knife sliding through tendons, flesh, digging into the wood of the table and _fuck_ , if it didn’t feel good. _Wir hatten unsere Befehlen._

He can feel the metal of the building singing to him, girders in the ceiling, grids on the floor, foil on the bottles, more body piercings than he cares to count. Tightens his fist under the table just to feel the walls creak. No-one notices above the music.

Erik imagines tearing the whole fucking place down. Ripping the girders and brackets down through the plaster, shattering the bottles, breaking and twisting people under the wreckage. Crushing them.

Then, a hand on his shoulder. He turns to find a man standing there. He’s tall, muscled, a lecherous smile on his face.

For the briefest of moments, Erik feels the ghost of a body in his arms. Feels again the manic joy of flicking those bullets aside as if they were nothing. And then the sudden horror – like the ground disintegrating beneath his feet.

With a sudden clarity, he knows he’s going to let this man take him back to whatever sad shithole he calls a home, and fuck him until he can’t breathe.


End file.
